


Pass the 'Tussin

by popfly



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-23
Updated: 2013-01-23
Packaged: 2017-11-26 16:20:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/652154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popfly/pseuds/popfly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Thanks,” Tyler says, and smiles. It’s weak, but he tries to put everything he’s not willing to say (because professing your giant love for someone when you’re vomiting is not on) behind it, and Dylan looks like maybe he gets it, goes a little redder in the face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pass the 'Tussin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donnersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donnersun/gifts).



> Sick!fic for donnersun because I lobe her and cannot resist the lure of writing about people vomming, apparently. Inspired by Ian Bohen's tweet, title taken from that as well.
> 
> Un-beta'd. And seriously, I tag for vomiting cos I talk about vomiting. Heads up.

Tyler gets sick in what has come to be known on set as the “second wave”, the “first wave” done with the expulsion of disgusting bodily fluids part of the flu and now firmly in the whining about how bad they hurt all over part. He shows up to work anyway, because that’s what being a professional is about, and he’s not about to let a little queasiness throw everyone off schedule. If Posey can do it, he can do it.

He’s not expecting any kind of attention, because literally everyone from the camera guys to the makeup people is ill, but Russell snarks at him in his British way about how he took care of everyone else when they were sick (and yeah, he brought Mrs. Grass’s with him to the set one day because it’s what his mom made for him when he was sick when he was younger, but it’s not like he was expecting anything in return) so he should just let himself be taken care of for once, dammit.

It’s still hard for him, letting Crystal shove him down into a chair in between takes, accepting a mug of Theraflu from Ian, having his apologies waved off by Jeff every time he has to stop a take to run off and puke. He doesn’t like being off his game, even if there are six other people doing the same thing, even if it’s not his fault that the set is basically a greenhouse of germs.

“Dude, just, don’t stress out about it,” Dylan says, leaning against the closed door of the bathroom stall. He’s outside of it, because Tyler does not want anyone watching him puke, he has his dignity, and when Tyler looks down under his arm he can see that Dylan is sideways, probably propping his shoulder against the cold steel door.

“You don’t have to stand there,” Tyler says, and his stomach rolls as soon as he unclenches his jaw to speak. Being sick is really, truly awful, and he always gets stupidly teary when he throws up, he doesn’t know why. Whatever the reason, it makes him feel vulnerable, and having Dylan standing out there all concerned while he’s doing it is not helping.

“Am I making you uncomfortable? I just hate being alone when I’m sick so I thought,” he kind of trails off, and Tyler can hear a noise like Dylan’s rubbing his fingers against the stall door. “You stayed with me.”

Of course Tyler stayed with him. He knows what Dylan’s like when he’s sick, he’d lived with him once. And Posey is too grossed out to be anywhere near anyone vomiting, so Tyler had taken it upon himself to hover over Dylan like his mom or something, except maybe not his mom because Tyler didn’t think it was cool to think of himself as Dylan’s family when he was so ass over elbows in love with him.

“That doesn’t mean you have to,” Tyler breaks off, groaning, and heaves a little into the bowl of the toilet. “Stay,” he finishes, croaking, and Dylan’s sneaker soles squeak on the tile.

“Next time you’re letting me in,” is all he says in return, and he has two paper towels ready for Tyler when he emerges, one wet and one dry, so he can clean his face.

“Mint or gum?” Dylan asks, holding out both. Tyler takes the mint and sucks on it hard, biting it clean in half when Dylan sort of snuggles against his biceps before pushing him out of the bathroom.

A few touch-ups from the one makeup girl not currently clutching her stomach, and they’re ready to roll.

There is no next time, not on set, because Tyler doesn’t ingest anything else and he manages to keep his stomach mostly calm by chanting at it in his head. _I will not let Dylan see me puke, I will not let Dylan see me puke, stay fucking still, I will not let Dylan see me puke_

He’s pretty proud of himself, actually.

He drops onto his bed that evening with his shoes still on, and he can't bring himself to care. He is wiped, sweaty and clammy and exhausted, and it’s not a satisfying sweatiness like after a workout, it’s a grimy sweatiness, like he’s coated in slime.

He wants to shower more than he’s ever wanted to do anything in his life, but there’s no way in hell he’s moving, so he just lets himself drift off to sleep. 

A weird clanking noise wakes him up, and if he weren’t half-dead he probably would’ve sat straight up in bed. As is he barely manages to lift his head from the pillow and say, “Whuh?” into the darkness of his room.

“Shit, sorry.”

Tyler’s eyebrows furrow because he knows that voice, but maybe he’s dreaming, because Dylan wouldn’t be in his house right now, would he?

“I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He is awake. Which means Dylan is in his apartment. He squints at the doorway and yeah, that’s a Dylan shaped shadow standing there, broad shoulders and all.

“Whuh?” Tyler says again, and groans as he shoves over onto his back, nearly panting at the effort. He can do one-handed push-ups, dozens of them, it’s ridiculous that pushing himself off a mattress could take this much out of him.

Shadow-Dylan reaches up to scratch his face and Tyler hears the scritch of stubble under nails. “I came over to make you soup?” he says, or asks; sometimes Dylan does both at the same time, when he’s feeling unsure. So he’s feeling unsure about letting himself into Tyler’s house to make him soup. Tyler’s brain is sleep-fuzzy and virus-addled, he has no idea how to deal with that.

“Thanks,” is all he can manage, and Dylan sort of raps his knuckles against the door jamb.

“I’ll bring it in when it’s done.”

Tyler struggles to sit up against his headboard, tipping his head back against it and panting when the exertion of propping a pillow behind his back proves to be too taxing. Dylan reaches in to switch the light on then, and Tyler blinks up at him, watching him grimace.

“Man, you look like you’ve been hit by a truck.”

Tyler huffs through his nostrils, not even really exasperated because he’s sure it’s true.

“I didn’t know if you could handle noodles or not right now, so I strained them out, it’s just broth.” Dylan is cradling a mug between his oven-mitt covered hands, steam obscuring part of his face. Tyler shakes his head a little, because his stomach is telling him no, he cannot handle noodles right now. “Yeah, I figured. Okay, I’ll leave this here.”

There’s a clink when Dylan sets the mug on the nightstand, and then he’s sliding an oven-mitt off and pressing his hand to Tyler’s forehead. He thinks it should be warm, from pressing against the soup cup, but it feels blessedly cool, and Tyler sighs, his eyes slipping closed.

“Oh man, you are warm. You should maybe try to take something for your fever.”

Tyler opens his eyes and Dylan’s face is close, hovering over him with his mouth pulled down, his weirdly bright eyes round. “Your hand feels nice,” he says.

“I bet it does. I could do a, you know, cold washcloth for you, if you want?”

Tyler nods, because he does. He wants. Now that Dylan’s here, something Tyler would have absolutely vetoed had he been given the chance before it happened, he wants Dylan to stay. He wants to be coddled, because even grown ass men like to be pampered when they’re sick and there’s nothing wrong with it.

Dylan goes, comes back with a glass of water and some pills, a washcloth draped over his arm. Tyler leans forward to take the pills and drink the water, and Dylan punches the pillows into a better position before Tyler leans back, then drapes the cloth over Tyler’s forehead. It’s heaven.

“Think you can handle the broth?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“Alright, I’ll leave you to it. I’m gonna clean up the kitchen.”

Tyler drinks the broth slowly, in tiny sips, and listens to Dylan move around the kitchen. He’s not loud, but he’s got music on, probably the Pandora One Direction station that he’s always listening to in his trailer, playing out of his phone speakers, and Tyler can hear him humming along quietly. It’s obvious he’s trying not to disturb Tyler, because otherwise Dylan would be dancing around like a lunatic, making a shit-ton of noise and singing at the top of his lungs. 

It’s more comforting than Tyler wants it to be.

After he drinks the broth he feels better, stronger, so he lurches to his feet and out into the kitchen, catching Dylan mid-hip shimmy. He laughs, but it’s short and kind of hoarse, and Dylan looks back over his shoulder, grinning.

“Up and at ‘em, hey? The broth helped?”

“It helped,” Tyler says, and Dylan does a mini-fist pump.

“Awesome. Think you’re up for some crap reality television?”

“Let’s do it.”

Dylan fusses with the throw pillows on Tyler’s couch, and palms his forehead again once he’s settled. “You’re still warm. Maybe you should sweat it out.”

He drags all the bedding out of Tyler’s room, then Hayley’s room, then the linen closet, and piles it up on Tyler until he can barely see over it.

Halfway through a rerun of _Baseball Wives_ , his stomach flips over.

“Uh,” he says, and starts shoving blankets off his lap.

“Shit, really?”

Tyler nods, and Dylan helps him get free. Tyler just makes it to the bathroom, and doesn’t have time to make Dylan get out, so he’s standing next to him when Tyler loses the broth into the toilet.

On top of all the regular ways he feels grossed out when he’s puking, he feels extra because Dylan is right there, and he squeezes his eyes closed so he doesn’t have to think about it. Then he feels the cool pressure of a hand on the back of his neck, fingers gripping slightly, and relaxes.

“I shouldn’t have made you eat so soon,” Dylan says, thumb brushing against Tyler’s sweaty skin. “It took me days to work up to broth. Good thing I didn’t give you the noodles though, hey, this would be like ten times more disgusting.”

Tyler groans, and Dylan squeezes his neck.

“I’m not leaving, so just hush. Get it all out so we can finish this episode. I need to see if Anna scratches Chantel’s eyes out or not.”

“It’s a rerun,” Tyler says, sitting back and grabbing for toilet paper to wipe his mouth.

“I know, but it’s just as good the second time around. Or the third, whatever.”

Tyler rinses his mouth out and follows Dylan back to the living room, lets himself be manhandled onto the cushions and piled with blankets. Dylan settles in the opposite corner of the couch and reaches for the remote.

“Aren’t you worried you’re going to get sick again?” Tyler asks, chin resting on the top layer of bedding heaped over him. Dylan shrugs, but doesn’t unpause the show.

“Nah,” he says, and glances over at Tyler. “Besides, you take care of me. Took care," he adds quickly, "of u.,” His cheeks get red in that way that Tyler loves, a bright spot of color just under his cheekbone.

Tyler jiggles one foot until it’s free of the blankets and slides it across the couch, tucking it under Dylan’s thigh. Dylan startles a little, looking down at it.

“Thanks,” Tyler says, and smiles. It’s weak, but he tries to put everything he’s not willing to say (because professing your giant love for someone when you’re vomiting is not on) behind it, and Dylan looks like maybe he gets it, goes a little redder in the face.

“You’re welcome. Now shut up and let me get back to my show.”

Tyler shuts up, and Dylan presses play.


End file.
